


Metempsychosis

by SilverBells



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, black enjolras, modern revolution, queerbended characters, racebended characters, rich/poor dynamics, stripper grantaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-29 02:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverBells/pseuds/SilverBells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, an Exercise in Miserable. </p><p>  <em> When history is not satisfied, it will inevitably repeat itself.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I love AU's, let that be clear. It's why I'm writing, one, after all. I just always sort of miss the revolution in most of them - so with all the riots and revolutions going on at the moment, I felt like it was the right time to write some modern e/R set during a sociopolitical upheaval. Aka I mashed les amis with all of the things going down in America right now and threw in some fictional locations and circumstances, with a sniff of queer and racebending, and voilá. 
> 
> metempsychosis (mɛtəmsaɪˈkəʊsɪs)
> 
> 1\. (Theology) the migration of a soul from one body to another.  
> 2\. (Theology) the entering of a soul after death upon a new cycle of existence in a new body.

It's near the end of the afternoon shift when Louise LaCroix and her son Grantaire arrive at Hotel Waterloo, just on the edge of the rich business district of Fermeil. Louise wraps her apron around her waist, and kisses her son on the cheek.   
  
Grantaire returns the kiss distractedly, before he runs off. She watches his dark curls bounce with every step. Christ, she misses those curls.   
  
She turns on her heel and wipes a stray strand of her own blonde hair from her face. Another day older, another day at work.  
  
“Hi,” she greets Fantine, in passing, as they enter and leave the restaurant kitchen, respectively.   
  
“Good evening!” Fantine says cheerily, and Louise rolls her eyes at the young woman. She wishes she had her youthful energy still.

 

The rest of the kitchen staff looks as tired as she feels, when she enters steamy central station of the restaurant. Even the smiles the waitresses plaster on when they leave with towers of plates look exhausted. It's a quiet struggle they share, and she exchanges a tired, but kind grimace of a smile with Marie, one of the cooks, like two soldiers preparing to go to war.

 

Then, she begins her five hour shift; five hours excluding clean up, and she already longs for the bottle of cheap vodka she has stashed away in one of their ratchety kitchen kabinets.  
  
When Louise exits the kitchen, a group of men and women hurry past her. They appear to be business folk, probably on a company dinner, with their partners and a few children. None of them, with the exception of the children, even deign to look at her.

 

Mr. Thénardier assigns her and Fantine to wait on the large group, and she sigs internally, reminding herself of Grantaire's rumbling stomach that morning. He's in the middle of a growth spurt, so she plasters on the smile and helps put together some tables so the entire party can be seated together.   
  
“I have placed you in our best room, Mr. Prouvaire,” says Mr Thénardier, with a grand gesture towards the staircase that is visible from the restaurant, “It has a spectacular view of the Mont Musain, you can enjoy it on the private balcony with your lovely wife!” Thénardier kisses the hand of one of the well-dressed women, who giggles, and adjusts the flower she has tucked behind her ear – Louise catches Fantine making a gagging face behind Thénardier's back and she has to stiffle a laugh.   
  
“Hello, I'm Louise and I will be your waitress tonight with my colleague Fantine, can I take your order for drinks?”   
  
A black man with a surprising flash of blonde hair frowns at her and orders an entire bottle of their most expensive wine, as well as a bottle of water – presumably for the little boy sitting opposite from him and his wife. He has inherited the shock of blonde hair and looks bored out of his skull. Louise compassionately informs the couple that there is a play area for the children and they look interested, until she tells them of Grantaire and his friends. “They're probably playing house as we speak!”   
  
“My son will not be associated with such rowdy rabble,” says the wife; a negative of her husband in every way. She's a frail, dark haired thing, and her husband nods at her solemnly. He glances briefly at the man Thénardier adressed – Prouvaire – whose son is sitting next to him with a soft smile on his face, his mother's flower now tucked behind his ear. After this he frowns at his own son, who frowns back.   
  
With a feeling of unease, Louise writes down their orders and moves on to the next couple, who are – to her relief – childless.   
  
She and Fantine are half way through taking all the drink orders down, when a late guest arrives.   
  
“I apologise, my friends!” he proclaims, with a hand on the shoulder of Mr. Prouvaire, who looks up at the man with amusement, “I will have to ask for you to excuse my tardiness – I had to entertain a lady-friend.” The company laughs at his stage-whispered confession, and they treat him to friendly conversation when he sits down.

 

Louise is prepared to finish up her current order and then head over to him when she notices Fantine, has frozen halfway through an order. Her gaze is locked on the late guest and a shock of worry courses through Louise – Fantine is young and she briefly mistakes the single mother's gaze for a quickly developing crush. That is – until the guest notices her, in return.   
  
“Fantine!” he exclaims, staring at her with a grin that promises nothing but trouble.   
  
“Felix,” Fantine manages .   
  
“Do you know her, Tholomyès?” the blonde man asks with a smirk on his face, as he leans greedily towards the unfolding scene. His wife looks pale and sour beside him, as she berates her son for something or the other.   
  
“Oh, do I know her!” says Felix Tholomyès. He smirks up at Fantine lecherously, and she seems to shrink before their very eyes. From the corner of her eye Louise sees Thénardier approach from the kitchen, and she rounds the table to try and steer Fantine away.   
  
“Best lay I've had since that model from Sweden!” Tholomyès exclaimes, and Louise sees Fantine's jaw tighten. “I know her _intimately_.”  he adds cruelly.   
  
“Felix,” Prouvaire chides, as several members of the party laugh and Fantine's cheeks redden, “There are children present.   
  
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Thénardier attempts to interfere, but Fantine interrupts him.   
  
“Whom he doesn't know –” she says, angrily, “is the daughter he left me after that _fantastic_ lay!”  
  
“Fantine!” shouts Thénardier, but his voice falls away at the sound of Tholomyès' chair hitting the ground.   
  
“You foul little whore!” he shouts, and a silence falls over the people in the restaurant, “Do you claim it is my fault?!”   
  
“I was a virgin, when you seduced me with your pretty lies!” Fantine accuses, “What did I know of protection? I thought I– Cosette!”   
  
All the scene's witnesses turn their attention to the door, and a blonde little girl with Fantine's eyes. She gazes bemusedly at the people before her.   
  
Louise spots a couple of other tiny heads not far from her, and she makes a face that very, _very_ clearly  screams<em> _'get lost!'_ _< /_ _em_ _>_ _._ _S_ he watches them disappear behind the corner worriedly.   
  
“Mom?” says Cosette, staring at her mother.   
  
Fantine, by now, has caught on to the fact that she is in trouble – even Mrs Thénardier has left the front desk to see for herself what the fighting is all about.   
  
“Cosette, go back to play!” Fantine urges her daughter, as her arm is taken – tightly and painfully, by the looks of it – by Mr Thénardier.   
  
“Be quiet, this is a restaurant, not a circus!” he hisses at her, as Mrs Thénardier approaches Cosette and takes her by the arm in a similarl manner, escorting her away from the restaurant. “My apologies, gentlemen, I will send a new waitress with complementary appetizers immediately!” His smile is on on full, but Louise knows it will disappear the moment he leaves the restaurant, Fantine in tow.   
  
Louise gulps, but as much as she'd like to stand up for her colleague, she can't afford to loose her job, too, so she plasters her smile back on, and goes to take Tholomyès' order. He looks smug, and positively evil, but she is a coward and laughs at the joke he makes at Fantine's expense.   
She serves the rich men and women their food, and receives no tips a the end of the night.   
  
“All  _day_  I'm on my feet, standing about, for the bare minimum of wage, and I don't even get any tips!” she complains to Marie, when they clean the counters in the kitchen, “What do I even do this for?”  
  
“For your child, back at home,” Marie replies, her accent as notable as her love for her family, “Sitting does not make living.”   
  
“It doesn't get them winter coats, either,” says another cook, scrubbing at the last of the pots, “It doesn't keep out the cold.”   
  
“Still at the end of the day,” Louise argues, “We work for almost nothing, it barely lasts me a week – if I'm careful. I can't afford to buy Grantaire new shirts, let alone a coat!”  
  
Louise is so tired, so tired and scared, shaken after the ordeal with fantine. She throws the cloth she's cleaning with on the counter and leans on it, tears in her eyes.   
  
“Another day today, another day tomorrow,” Marie agrees, patting her back comfortinly, “Another day wasted on the rich.” Nods come from all directions. Quiet despair in all of their eyes. Louise shakes her head.   
  
“Poor Fantine,” says Marie, “She be out on the streets.” An uncomfortable silence agrees with her, as they all continue with their chores, anxious to be free and to finally be able to go home and rest – only to do it all over again tomorrow, when another day dawns. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

The block castle they had been building had only been half finished when they abadoned it to investigate the shouting in the restaurant, and it is still standing there when they return to it, shaken.   
  
“Cosette's mom is in trouble!” says little Feuilly, his eyes large and scared, he clasps at Grantaire's hand, tugging at it, “She's in trouble, isn't she?”  
  
“I think so,” answers Grantaire, though he has no idea what happened in the restaurant – he just obeyed when mom glared at him with her _'go away'_ stare. It's a very specific 'go away' stare that Grantaire hasn't seen much before, so he doesn't exactly know what it means.

 

“Is Cosette in trouble, too?” asks Feuilly, insistently.   
  
“We don't know, Feuilly,” hisses Eponine. She has sat down amongst the blocks, her arms crossed over the poofy front of her dress, “Close your trap!”   
  
Feuilly shuts up dutifully and Grantaire frowns at Eponine. He takes Feuilly to go sit with their friend, and when they do, she quietly takes one of Feuilly's hands and holds it. They wait in silence only interrupted by Feuilly's sporadic almost-questions, which he swallows every time.   
  
They start, when Eponine's mom comes storming into the play corner, with Cosette in tow. “Scum of the streets,” she mutters, as she turns Cosette to face her, “Stay here, until your mother comes, you little brat.” She practically throws Cosette at them and Grantaire scrambles up to help her, avoiding the menacing gaze of Mrs. Thénardier.   
  
“You! What are you looking at?” she hisses, presumably at Feuilly, “Don't you know it's rude to stare?” She turns around and stomps out of the play corner, and Grantaire sighs in relief.   
  
“Are you okay?” he asks Cosette, who nods quietly.   
  
“Is your mom in trouble?” asks Feuilly, who shuts up again after an elbow from Eponine in his ribs.   
Cosette lets out a quiet sob, “I don't know – I don't know, I think so.” She rubs at her eyes and Grantaire hugs her the way his mom used to always hug him.   
  
“It's okay, Cosette,” he tells her, even though he's not sure it will be – it seems to him that things rarely are, but he knows it will comfort her, “It's going to be okay.”   
  
“Yeah,” says Feuilly, catching on, “I'm sure everything will be fine!”   
  
Cosette looks at him with watery eyes, “Really?”   
  
“No,” says a voice, “Your mommy's going to be fired.” They all turn towards Azelma, who is standing next to their block tower, with her little arms crossed.   
  
“Shut up, Azelma!” Eponine hisses at her little sister, with a quick glance to Cosette, “You're wrong!”  
  
“No I'm not!” Azelma says defiantly, her little nose raised in the air, “Daddy shouted at her, and everybody gets fired when daddy shouts at them.” She grins at Cosette winningly, “Because daddy is the boss, because he owns everything!” She pushes over the block tower, to outrage of them all, and then runs away, when Grantaire makes to chase her.   
  
“You're stupid!” he shouts, pettily, throwing one of the blocks after her. He frowns at the corner she disappeared behind and then turns back to his friends. Cosette is crying again.   
  
“Cosette, Cosette, don't cry!” Feuilly tries, using his sweater to wipe at Cosette's face clumsily, “Azelma is just being mean because Grantaire said she couldn't be a princess.”   
  
Grantaire shrugs – it's true. They were playing pirates and pirates don't have princesses. He did offer her a place among the crew, but she didn't want to.   
  
“Azelma's a meanie,” hiccups Cosette.   
  
“Yeah, she is,” Eponine mutters, before she smiles brightly, “Which is why she won't hear the story!”  
  
Grantaire perks up and so does Feuilly. Cosette glances at Eponine tearily. “Remember?” says the oldest of the Thénardier children, “You were going to tell us about your cloud!”   
  
“Yeah!” says Grantaire, “The cloud and the white lady!”   
  
A tiny smile appears on Cosette's face. “It was just a dream,” she says quietly.   
  
“But it was good, right?” Eponine encourages.   
  
“Yeah, you have to tell us!” says Grantaire, and he makes Feuilly sit down in listening position, just like their teachers always used to make them sit during reading hour. Cosette giggles as they playfight with each other and then puts on her little teacher voice.   
  
“Settle down!” she says, starting to enjoy the game Grantaire has created, “I'm going to tell you about the castle on a cloud!”   
  
Eponine and Grantaire make 'ooh' and 'aah' noises, as Feuilly laughs at them, and they all giggle before they let Cosette speak about her cloud and the white lady that lives there.   
Feuilly is the first to fall asleep, a little while after Cosette has explained her dream and they're all fantasizing about the castle, and Eponine follows not soon after, when Cosette dreamily informs them that there's only one rule – that no one is allowed to cry, ever. Grantaire smiles at that, comfortably curled up against the pillows and sharing one of the nap-blankets with Eponine.   
  
“I bet she sings lullabies,” he says to Cosette, who is putting another blanket over Feuilly, and she smiles and nods and starts singing a little song she makes up on the spot.   
  
It's the last thing Grantaire sees and hears of her, as he falls alseep, unaware of the shouting near the front desk and Fantine who comes to collect her daughter. She and Cosette never return to the Waterloo and years later, the only thing Grantaire remembers of her is a haunting lullaby.  


	2. Fifteen years later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Grantaire. Aka, exposition.

“Gavroche! Get back here!”

Grantaire forces his way through the mob of zombiesdisguised as men and women on their way to work and catches Gavroche by the collar of his shirt.

“But I saw - !” Gavroche tries, but Grantaire pulls the boy close to his side, keeping a careful arm on his little shoulder.

“I don't care what you saw, Gav,” he mumbles around his cigarette, “Eponine will murder me if I loose you, so you're not running off.”

Gavroche twists in Grantaire's arm, dislodges him, and runs off.

Grantaire sighs, but makes no attempt at catching him again. It's much too early for this kind of shit, he decides, as he takes a last drag from his blunt and drops the bud on the ground. He has two left in the package he bought about three weeks ago and he's going to save them for when he needs them more, even though he's dying for another one.

He falls in step with the rest of the morning crowd, as they make their way from the crowded station into the city. A herd of cattle herded by the edges of the sidewalk, looking down at their shoes stepping on the merciless concrete, one foot after the other. He kicks at a little pebble and waits for the inevitable –

“Why do I have to go with you?” moans Gavroche, as he kicks away the pebble, too far for either of them to reach and slips his little hand into Grantaire's.

“'s Not my fault your teachers have that conference to go to, kid,” answers Grantaire, raising an eyebrow at him, “and Eponine's got class, so you're stuck with me.”

Gavroche blows up his little chest. “I can take care of myself!” he huffs, cheeks puffed.

“Yeah, 'course you can, Gav,” says Grantaire, as he helps Gavroche to jump on a ledge, where he balances precariously for a few seconds before he finds his balance and starts walking next to Grantaire again, now at shoulder height, “But last time we left you to your own devices, you nearly set your bed on fire.”

“I didn't know they was flammable!”

“ _Were_ flammable,” Grantaire corrects, as he pauses and waits for Gavroche to jump of the ledge by himself.

It's not long until they've arrived at the supermarket that is Grantaire's morning job, where he stacks the shelves and does other mundane jobs from six to eleven in the morning, three times a week. He nods at the men who are unloading the truck and shakes hands with a few of his colleagues, who look at Gavroche with amusement – it isn't the first time Grantaire's brought him along. It's okay with his boss, and more than allright with is colleagues, who adore the boy, as people tend to do.

“You're not always going to be around to protect me, you know,” Gavroche informs him pelutantly, as he watches Grantaire wash his hands and wrap the mandatory apron around his hips.

“Help me push the crates, Gav,” Grantaire asks him, and Gavroche wordlessly gomes to his side and helps push the first crates of vegetables towards the main shop.

“Tell me. When-” grunts Grantaire, forcing the crates around a particularly difficult corner, “am I ever not going to be there for you, Gav?”

Gavroche seems to realise the insensitivity of his comment, even though Grantaire gets what he means, and he looks apologetic. He replies anyway, “When I'm on the school trip.”

Right, the school trip.

“Right, the school trip,” says Grantaire. Gavroche hasn't been able to talk about much else for a couple of months new – ever since the news was announced after the Christmas holidays it's been on his mind. The school is organizing a trip to the coast for the kids. A week long getaway and Gavroche is excited as any kid his age would be about being able to see the ocean and spending a week away from parental supervision – even if that parental supervision is made up of Eponine, Grantaire, and the occasional Bahorel (who generally lets Gav do whatever the hell he wants and shouldn't really count)

“There will be teachers there, though,” Grantaire argues, as he stacks the crates and lets Gavroche rearrange the pre-packed broccoli.

“I know,” mumbles Gavroche, looking a little forlorn with his last branch of broccoli in one hand, “But you won't be.”

This gets Grantaire's attention, and he glances down at Gav questioningly, “Do you want me to be?”  
He hands Gavroche the crates he's done with so he can stack them back on the trolley, and Gavroche takes his time to answer.

“We've never been on vacation together,” he says, when they're back in the stockroom, “And like, I love it here. I love Fermeil and I love living here with you – all my people are here, but...”

“... you'd love to go somewhere with us,” Grantaire finishes. A large, guilty stone slides down his throat and lands painfully in his stomach.

“Yeah,” says Gavroche, “I know we can't yet and that's okay, I mean what we have, it's nothing posh or nothing but it's ours and it's great, but it's shit that we don't have the freedom to go where we want every once in a while.”

“ _Language_ ,” Grantaire scolds automatically – even though he's 105% sure he's the whom Gavroche accidentally learned all his swearwords from – but his heart isn't in it. A sleep deprived headache is building behind his eyes.

It _is_ shit. It's complete and absolute utter bullshit that they can't give Gavroche everything he deserves; that he's had to grow up as fast as he did, no matter how hard they tried to give him at least a little bit of a proper childhood, after they finally got him away from the Thénardiers. It's shit that Gav knows these things and has made peace with them, sometimes so surprisingly old for someone his age. It's shit that they can barely feed the kid sometimes.

“Jeremiah from my class goes on holiday three times a year,” says Gavroche, when they've worked through half of his shift and he's sitting on a little stool eating a few throwaway breadcrusts, “It's so unfair. Wouldn't it be better, more _equality_ like, if he went on one, and I went on one, and Marie went on one, too?”

Grantaire looks at him sadly. “You've been listening to Courfeyrac too much,” he says, “Don't believe him, Gav, not everything Enjolras says is gospel truth.”

“I know. Courf says that too.”

Of course he does.

“Gabrosh!” yells Juan, interrupting their conversation, “You still want to help with the meat?” He is waving a bloody knife at them from behind his counter. Gavroche positively lights up, and Grantaire shakes his head in amusement.

Juan is one of Grantaire's not-quite-legal and definitely underpaid colleagues. He makes even less than Grantaire does, even though he's an incredibly skilled butcher, and Gavroche adores him, mostly because he always lets him have the first taste of all the little sample plates he makes. The kid is up and out of sight within seconds and that's the end of their conversation.

Grantaire doesn't see much of Gavroche until a few hours later, when he has to extract him from a group of stoners near the entrance of the supermarket, to whom he's preaching the dangers of drug-use – honestly he should talk to Courfeyrac about setting dangerous examples – and drags him out of the supermarket to go and get some food in them. Lunch consists of some of yesterday's bread and barely out of date ham and cheese he got from the stockroom, as well as some juice he bought with his employee discount, but it's a nice meal and it's a warm, sunny day, so they eat it outside, and it's kind of really great. Just the two of them against the world, it feels like. Their little arguments from the morning are all but forgotten as they babble about nothing, and also Gav's embarrassing crush on Elise Dulac.

It's not often that Grantaire has all of his jobs on the same day, but today is one of the unfortunate days where the stars have aligned just to mess with him, so their lunch is of short duration. Gavroche accompanies him to his second job at a restaurant in the richer part of the city, where he works from twelve to four, today. When they arrive, Gav immediately starts complaining about Grantaire's teasing to Feuilly, Grantaire's co-worker, and coincidentally also one of his best friends since childhood.

“Oh don't mind him,” the man says goodnaturedly, smirking at Grantaire from underneath his floppy fringe, “he's just glad someone else is pining after someone for a change.”

Feuilly is coincidentally also a bastard.

“Just for that you can serve creepy old lady in the corner, today,” Grantaire grumbles, though he can't help but smile at Gavroche's delighted cackling, and he bumps shoulders with Feuilly when they head for their respective areas.

His feet are killing him.

Eponine packed Gavroche's homework for him last night, so Grantaire installs him at a table with it and checks up on him periodically. More than half the time he finds Gav talking to the tenants instead, but he does make significant progress, so he's proud of the kid, even if he has to reassure certain costumers that no – there is no terrorist organisation that is trying to start a revolution to overthrow the government, madame, my little friend has quite the overactive imagination. It's routine by now, really. He spends most of his time tearing into the les Amis argumentation anyway, he can do that with or without Enjolras present to defend the cause.

He is glad, though, when the lunch-crowd thins out and he can take a moment to just sit with Gav and help him with his math. They're both artrocious at math, so it's a bonding exercise, really. Feuilly laughs at them from behind the bar, and Grantaire considers it a succesful exercise when they stick out their tongues at him simultaneously.

Feuilly and Grantaire work the same shift that day, so they leave together, when the evening staff comes to relieve them.

“Are you going to the rally?” Feuilly asks, and Grantaire nods tiredly. Of course he is. Feuilly nods in understanding and they swing Gavroche in between them, as they make their way to the Saint Michele Church. The quare is one of Enjolras' favourite places to hold rallies, because it's slap bang in the middle of the poor district of Fermeil. The dark skinned blonde is already present when they arrive, as per usual accompanied by his two personal shadows.

“Coco. Chanel.” Grantaire greets them. Combeferre doesn't respond, but Courfeyrac punches him in the shoulder. Grantaire grins at the curly haired student broadly, even though he's mentally and physically exhausted. He's been up and at it since four thirty that morning, and he could have gone home to take a nap, but instead he's here, still on his feet, to support Enjolras and the Amis and their stupid cause. He grabs a protest sign, without a care in the world what's on it and slaps Gavroche's hands when he attempts to do the same.

“You heard 'Ponine, kid,” he says to the pouting boy, “You can watch and walk, but you're not to get involved.”

“Since when do you listen to anything Ep says,” grumbles Gavroche.

“I listen when I agree with her,” says Grantaire, pushing Gav towards a bench he can sit on to look at the rally. Grantaire knows his butt isn't going to touch the wood for long, but he can dream.

“Stay.” he tells him, and then joins ranks with Feuilly and Bahorel, just in time to see Enjolras climb the stairs of the church.

“Here in the district of Saint Michele,” he begins, voice loud – booming, catching the attention of everybody in the square, “The citizens live on the crumbs of the rich and the kindness of those who work piously to help them.” Enjolras makes a wide gesture towards the church and the homeless shelter behind him, and the food bank across the square, “But it is not enough! It is not nearly enough!”

A few cheers erupt from the public – and not all of them voices Grantaire recognizes. He is again – inexplicably – reminded of just how much power lies in Enjolras' voice, his words, and the way he manages to set himself on fire and lets everybody burn with him, burn with fury over the inequality, the poverty –

“ - the starving children, who, without the means to get a proper education, and with no prospect of an adequately paying job, have little hope to break the vicous cicle they are trapped in and live only to see their own children meet the same fate!”

Enjolras glows, standing above the group of protestors and listeners like a rising sun, a God among them. Grantaire wishes he still had some paint left, to capture this image of Enjolras. He knows very well that Enjolras is but a mortal, if a nearly perfect human specimen, but it is hard to see him as anything but Other. Different from Grantaire, different from the people he speaks to. He is hopeful, passionate – not eternally exhausted and oppressed. Above all, Enjolras believes in them in a way that they cannot begin to believe in themselves.

Grantaire does not believe that things can be changed – the poor have no power, not even in numbers, he has seen the police forces break up masses of protestors, rebels, and revolutionaries. It's a useless thought that they could ever change things for themselves, but sometimes, in moments like this when he looks at Enjolras, and listens to him – sometimes he feels the tiniest spark of hope.

The speech ends, followed by loud applause and people shouting for justice and Grantaire's hands lower his protest sign without his counscious approval. Someone tugs at his coat.

“Eponine says she's home,” Gavroche lets him know, holding Grantaire's phone up at him, “But we don't have to go yet, right?”

Grantaire takes the phone from him, not even remotely surprised Gav pickpocketed him, and looks at the time. He shakes his head. “It's almost dinner time, Gav, we should.”

“Aww,” moans Gavroche. His plea for more time on the square is seconded by Bahorel, who joins in on the aww'ing. It's a truly ridiculous sight, because Bahorel is nearly 6 foot tall and build like a house.

“No,” he tells both of them, trying to look stern, but the look they give each other tells him it's not a very impressive attempt, “We have to go.”

“Leaving so soon?” someone behind him asks.

Grantaire swallows, and turns to face Enjolras, who looks at him with half a smile on his sharp, dark face, which is framed by his implausible blonde curls. It sends a shock through Grantaire upon sight, and he nearly drops the phone in his hand. He glances down at Enjolras' beautiful, full lips, and then up at the piercing brown eyes, and yes – yes, he definitely has to leave immediately, before he says or does something stupid.

“Sorry, Apollo,” says Grantaire, with a crooked smirk, beholding with admiration the rise of Enjolras' eyebrow, “Places to be, people to see. You know.”

The look on Enjolras' face tells him he doesn't, in fact, know, but Grantaire salutes him anyway and reaches for Gavroche's hand. When the tiny hand slips into his, he's quick to find a way through the remaining group of people and towards the appartment they share with Eponine.

It is always sort of shocking to see Enjolras, but even more so in a place so unlike him – hellish and ugly. Even their church does angels no justice.

It doesn't seem possible, but as they walk the buildings around them become even shabbier and shadier, and Grantaire presses Gavroche close when they pass a group of people that look like definite trouble. It's shit that this is the place where they're forced to raise him.

Their little appartment is thankfully not that far from the square and Gavroche races up the three staircases it takes them to reach it. He has already chucked his jacket and is reaching into the candy jar when Grantaire enters. He has to force the door to shut behind him.

“After dinner!” he tells Gavroche, as he passes him on his way to the living room. It's just a tiny extension of the kitchen, really, but it does the job. The door on his left opens while he's cleaning up the plates he didn't have the time to deal with that morning, and a damp Eponine exits, just finished with the shower she usually takes after her classes on tuesday and thursday.

“Hey,” he greets, and she smiles at him, before catching Gavroche in a hug.

“I got us noodles for dinner,” she informs him, as she forces a comb through her unruly dark hair, half listening to Gavroche babbling her ears off about their day. “That's nice, Gav,” she says, “but you shouldn't talk to people we don't know.”

“But they were smoking!” Gav protests, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, tuning the siblings out and heading for his bedroom to change out of his day clothes. His room is the smallest of their two tiny bedrooms, because Gavroche and Eponine share, but it's pretty light, considering, and a little messy and, most importantly, his. He smiles as he puts on his loosest shirt – the one that shows off his collar bones – and shrugs on his old faux-leather jacket. He doesn't like why he usually wears it, but he's proud of it anyway. He saved up long enough for it to love it to death.

“Off-white shirt with jacket,” he calls through the open door, “Blue or black jeans?”

“Blue!” Eponine shouts back, and she smiles at him when he enters the main room again, “Looks good, babe.” Gavroche makes gagging noises behind her, and Grantaire stiffles a laugh.

He opens a window to let out the steam and smell of the noodles and then helps Gavroche with setting the table. He doesn't once glance at the half finished sketch that's lying on the counter, dinner is the nicest part of his day, and he smiles through the siblings' exchange of stories. They always try to have dinner together, and Grantaire admits that he hates it when they don't manage it, even though it only started as a way to give Gav at least some sense of routine to his days.

He compliments Eponine on her cooking, and she elbows him in the ribs – they both know Grantaire is the better cook, but he doesn't usually have the time, so it's generally noodles, pasta or potatoes, and sometimes a semi-creative dish made out of leftowers, but it's food, and it's dinner as a family. Grantaire wouldn't have it any other way, and it ends too soon. Gavroche has become way too good at clearing his plate in a timely fashion, and Grantaire sighs when he and Eponine clear the table. He makes an attempt to help, but Eponine shuts him down.

“You've got an evening to go yet,” she reminds him, hand squeezing his shoulder, “Relax a moment.”

Grantaire closes his eyes and sighs, feeling his body protest against the sudden relaxation of his muscles. He's already aching, and he's not looking forward to having to go out, again, but they need to save up for the rent.

“Allright, I'm off then,” he says, some time later, after he's watched Eponine force Gavroche into his pyjamas. He kept on trying to convince her he wasn't tired, even through his ginormous yawns. “You be good, kid, do as your sister says and go to bed,” he tells the boy, pressing a kiss to his hair. Gavroche obeys for a change, and nods at Grantaire sadly, before he turns to head to his bed.

“Goodnight!” he calls, and they both echo him. Once he's gone, Grantaire heads for one of their cabinets, and pulls out the cheap bottle of vodka he's stashed there. Eponine looks at him sadly when he takes a gulp and then puts it back.

“Be safe,” she tells him, and he grunts. He's out the door as quickly as he can; he just wants to get this over with.

He pops his collar and buries his hands in his pockets, it's chilly outside and he wishes he'd stolen Eponine's scarf. She's not going to need it tonight, anyway.  
Oh well, he'll be warm soon enough.

It's nearing nine pm when he arrives at club Sergant and he squints up at the giant neon sign with distaste, reminding himself to just be glad Eponine got out of here, got that job at the Musain that was supposed to be his. He works here instead, and it's not ideal, but better.

“There you are, R,” drawls a voice, when he enters the dressing rooms, “How's 'Ponine?”

“None of your business, 'Parnasse,” Grantaire drawls back passive agressively, as he starts to shrug off his clothes. He's quick about it and down to his underwear in no time. It's the least difficult part of getting ready.

“You're always so refreshing,” Montparnasse laughs, smirking his usual cocky grin when he enters Grantaire's field of vision, “Need help with that?”

Grantaire shrugs and allows Montparnasse to douse him with body-glitter. It gets them a few whistles when the rest of Patron Minette enters the dressing room, but Grantaire ignores them. Montparnasse is the only one of them he remotely trusts and that's because he helped him get Eponine out, and _that's_ because he has a gigantic crush on her. Also he never 'accidentally' pokes Grantaire with the make-up brushes.

The rest of them he doesn't care about, and they don't care much for him. They think he's weird for only doing what they consider half the job.

“I'm pretty sure my sugar's in town tonight,” Claquesous gloats, and the rest of them whistle at him while they're getting ready.

Grantaire puts his shirt in his bag, and ignores them, as he shrugs his jacket back on, along with some tight-fitting black shorts. All he can do after that is wrap some of his black ribbons around his feet and ankles and then they're ready and heading for the stage.

“Welcome, welcome!” shouts the familiar voice of Mr. Thénardier, “Sit yourself down, welcome! Welcome to the best show in town!”

Applause follows his words and Grantaire hops back and forth on his feet nervously.

“If you've come to see the whores,” Thénardier slurs, clearly already quite inebriated, “Well you've come to the wrong place!” The audience roars and Grantaire takes a deep breath. “Down 'ere, we only have the sons of whores!”

“Now fetch yourself a bottle of our best,” the failed hotel-manager urges his clientele, “And for the nectar of today, try this lot! Patron Mignette, guaranteed to hit the spot!”

Well – he does know how to sell them, Grantaire thinks to himself, even if he isn't technically part of Patron Mignette.

He shakes his head; now isn't the time, and he turns of his thoughts before he follows Babet and Claquesous out of the coulisses and lets himself be swallowed by the spotlights.

He looses himself, then, in the thumping music that accompanies their routine – a club favourite – and lets the audience gaze at him, he lets them touch him, lets them slip dollar bills be into the steadily decreasing amount of clothes that cover his body. He looses himself in his third job.

Grantaire is a stripper, and a damn good one too. It's why Thérnardier lets him dance with Patron-Mignette in the first place, and the pay is great. The only downside is that he has to loose some part of himself to be able to do it.

Grantaire takes pride in his body – well, what he can do with his body – and he knows there's nothing wrong with his job, or profession, or whatever you want to call it, but honestly, he does it to pay the bills, and there's nothing more to it. If he could quit, he would. Club Sergant isn't exactly the most high-end of joints, Thénardier has been cruel for as long as Grantaire can remember.

At the end of the day, though, there's just something about the fact that even in his own less than enthousiastic image of his future, he'd never imagined himself quite like this; a man on his knees before a hairy, middle-aged bloke stuffing a ten dollar bill down the front of his his pants. The lecherous look that comes with it makes his stomach roll, and he wishes that he at least worked in one of the clubs where touching the dancers is prohibited, but no such luck. He offers the man a charming smile and gets up to sensually swing around Montparnasse and the pole he's hanging off. His ass is slapped for his effort.

Gavroche, he thinks determinedly, _you're doing this for Gavroche and his future_. These bills are going to his college fund. These bills are going to pay for Eponine's mandatory internship. These bills will help his family, that's why he allows them to be stuffed in the private nooks and creases of his body.

Once their thirty minute set is done, Patron-mignette and Grantaire spread out to work the floor – to get more tips and make the costumers drink more, basically, and it's there that Thérnardier finds Grantaire. He slings an arm around him amicably.

“You made him order a bacardi, well done!” he praises, and Grantaire pulls a face. Thénardier grins and gestures at the club, “Dirty bunch of geezers, all of them. What a sorry little lot.”

Grantaire has to nearly pierce his own lips with his teeth in order to stop himself from pointing out that Thérnardier is the owner of a sleazy strip club which he bought with whitewashed money after he bankrupted his shady hotel.

Thénardier doesn't ask after his daughter, and quickly leaves Grantaire alone when he is less than responsive, thank god.

“Your pay's in the back-room,” the slurs, before heading over to a sweat-shiny and ever so charming Montparnasse, who winks at Grantaire over their boss' shoulder. It's the ever present offer of getting him an overly cosy get-together with someone after work, which Grantaire, as always, declines. He's still not sure why people even want that with him. Montparnasse shrugs and nods towards the backroom.

Grantaire body aches, he's barely able to keep his eyes open at this point and it's a struggle to put his clothes back on, once he's picked the envelope with his name up from the backroom, but he manages.

It's an even harder struggle to strip them back off when he's home again, a little after 1 am, the house dark and peaceful. He tiredly checks on the siblings, who are sound asleep, and then falls into bed – completely exhausted. He blacks out without a memory of being completely horizontal.


	3. The Champ shooting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down.

Grantaire loves one-job days. They're not frequent, but they sometimes come along. Usually in weeks where he also works one or more three-job days and it's almost worth it.

 _Almost_ , Grantaire thinks, when he wakes up at half past ten the next day. On his bedside table lies a note from Eponine, signed in one corner with a clumsy _G_. He smiles at it, despite the fact that it's adressed to 'Curly bastard', and takes his time getting out of bed and ready for the second job later.

As he's making himself some breakfast, he turns on the radio on Eponine's laptop. Contrary to popular opinion – also known as, Enjolras' opinion – he is actually interested in what happens in the world, seeing as he's one of the idiots that lives in it. Plus, the announcer's voice is a nice and monotone background noise for while he's making breakfast.

_– the buyout has caused an upwards curve in the stock market, with a rise of up to and exceeding 8 percent. Stock holders are re-distributing the shares and have good hope for the future of the company, according to their spokesman. In further news, the police have reported that twenty-one yaer old Matieu Champ was fatally wounded in a violent struggle with the police this morning, after an attack on the officers when they attempted to arrest him for attempted shoplifting. Champ has a history of violence and was recently released from a six month prison sentence. A spokesman of the Fermeil police force expressed his regret over the death of Champ, but underscored the fact that his officers acted in their own defense. There will be no trial. And now, the weather. A storm has caused thousands in damage in the area surrounding –_

Grantaire frowns at the laptop over the kitching counter. So much unsecessary violence. The kids never think about just doing what the police tell them to do. Sometimes you gotta pick the fights you get in, that's a rule any poor kid learns early on in these parts of town.

Grantaire spares a few thoughts on it while he eats his breakfast. The gist of it is that– it's just so pointless, absolutely pointless. The man was twenty-one. Only a little younger than Enjolras. The thought is terrifying. Enjolras isn't a poor kid, he doesn't know how to pick his fights at all. He just fights everyone.

With a sigh, Grantaire changes the channel to a generic music station, and continues with his morning. He'll listen to Enjolras rant about it later – or rather, he'll watch Enjolras rant about it later.

He grins to himself and grabs his things, forgetting about the incident almost instantly. He has a job to do.

 

* * *

 

“Did you hear about the shooting this morning?” Feuilly asks, reminding him of the news report during a lull in their shift.

“Hmmh?” Grantaire replies vaguely, as he attempts to stack the café's generic paper cups on top of each other. It's a wonky pyramid, but it's working. Sort of.

“The Champ shooting?”

“Is that what they're calling it?” Grantaire replies, looking up from his cups, “I thought it was an accident.”

Feuilly looks at him uncertainly.

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “Feuilly,” he inquires, in what Eponine refers to as his big brother voice. Feuilly is the only one of them still succeptible to it. He frowns.

“It's just, they left him there in the street,” the other says unsurely, leaving pale lines on his skin where he scratches it nervously, “Didn't even try to help. That doesn't sound very accident-y, to me.”

It doesn't sound very accident-y to Grantaire, either.

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” he soothes anyway, automatically, “We'll head to the Musain later, yeah? See what's happening.”

Feuilly nods. Musichietta knows everything about everybody, after all. And Combeferre will have the facts. Enjolras will probably organize a wake. Grantaire will secretly seek out the family – see where he can help. Everything will be fine.

 

* * *

 

“Everything is not fine, Grantaire!” cries Joly, uncharacteristically angry, “They shot him, without provocation, right in front of her!”

Behind him, Musichietta is still a little red-eyed and being comforted by Bossuet, who pets her hair rhythmically. “It's murder,” he tells Grantaire, softly, but firmly – and yeah, Grantaire got as much from Courfeyrac's animated recount of what went down.

Apparently Mathieu Champ had been a frequent costumer at the Musain, and had in fact just left the place when he got shot. Musichietta ran after him with his wallet, which he'd left on the counter after paying for his coffee. Apparently they are – were, friends.

The Amis are gathered in the café Musain. It's a place they use frequently for meetings, thanks to the charity of Musichietta, who owns it, and who is friends with most, if not all of them. Today, they are are gathered not just as friends of the people, though, but as supportive friends to her, as well. Most of them are present, with only Eponine, Marius, and Jehan missing, and all of them are morbidly, uncharacteristically silent.

Grantaire personally feels as though he is in a state of shock. A lot of the Amis seem to feel the same – with the exception of, notably, Enjolras, Bahorel, Musichietta, and Feuilly.

“A hate crime,” Grantaire concludes, looking at them. Looking at their dark skin, their _black_ skin, and their sad, knowing eyes. He turns to the back of the room, where Enjolras and Combeferre are whispering furiously, “It's a race killing. ”

Enjolras straightens – Grantaire has to swallow two times before he can completely focus on all of him – and nods. “Yes. Or at least, we're pretty certain it was. Mathieu Camp was a black man, who was shot three times, for no other discernable reason than that he existed in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

There is a fury in Enjolras' eyes unlike Grantaire has ever seen in him before – and he's seen him after a visit from his parents.

“It's being covered by the media in increasingly twisted, unfair ways – Mathieu Champ had no history of violence,” Enjolras continues, “And while it is true that he was recently released from prison, this was a sentence for disqualified driving.”

Grantaire shakes his head, and around him sees some of the les Amis hang their heads, as well.

“What do we do?” Joly asks, still pale as a sheet and looking completely furious with the world. It's an unsettling sight.

“We protest,” says Enjolras, adressing all of them, “It's the only thing we can do, and it's what we _will_ do.”

He walks over to Musichietta and crouches down next to her, “We will get justice for your friend, I promise you.” His hand on her arm is a kind, firm vow.

Musichietta nods, and smiles a watery smile. “Thank you.” Joly and Bossuet hug her tightly, and her grin becomes just a little bit brighter. The sight tugs at Grantaire's heartstrings – there are few people in this world he respects as much as he respects the woman that practically built up the Musain from scratch all by herself. Got herself two youthful lovers along the way, too. It's a very deep respect.

“Tomorrow,” says Enjolras, rising, and turning back to the rest of them, “1 PM, will that work for everybody?”

Grantaire calculates – he has his third job in the evening tomorrow, and his first job in the morning, but the afternoon is open. He'll be there.

 

* * *

 

“Justice for Champ!” yells Bahorel, fist raised in the air.

“Justice was not served, Justice for Champ!” Grantaire and Eponine join in. The cry is repeated all around them. Combeferre yells it where he's collecting autographs for the petition to take the policemen who shot Champ to court. Marius and Courfeyrac yell it in unison, not far from them, lifting the protest banner high in the air for all the tv cameras to see. More voices scream and yell for justice, for honesty, for equality.

The crowd they're in is larger than any rally the Amis have ever organized and Grantaire is ever so grateful they left Gavroche at home.

“Justice for Champ! He was innocent! We are innocent!” he shouts, and that cry, too, is repeated throughout the crowd. Never let it be said he can't come up with a creative slogan.

Bossuet laughs at him, but shouts along. He is not holding a sign – he would hit someone in the face with it, if he did – but Musichietta's hand works just as well.

One voice is absent from their chorus, and Grantaire turns to look at Enjolras, who must standing on some sort of ledge, because he towers over the crowd. He's watching closely, keeping an eye both on them and on the police force that has gathered not far from them. Grantaire has seen him break up scuffles that easily could've turned into fights, and he's certain Enjolras has done that and more.

This protest is important – more important than probably anything they've done before and Enjolras knows it. They need this protest to go well, they need it to be peaceful. _'An example'_ Combeferre had called it, _'of how we do things, and how they do things.'_

Peace versus Violence. Grantaire cannot imagine it lasting long, no matter what their fearless leader does.

He is proven right when not much later, the black wall of police advances on them. Grantaire tenses. For heaven's sake why is he even here? They can't go to jail, who would take care of Gavroche?!

Any and all of the les Amis that would get away, he knows, but the fear sets in his stomach uneasily.  
When the force is as close as twenty feet from them, Enjolras hops down from his ledge and makes his way to the front of the crowd. Combeferre and Courfeyrac fall in behind him immediately. Combeferre to his right, Courfecrac to his left. The banner has been passed to Joly, who stares at them anxiously.

The triumvirate seem to create a sight that slows the force down – Grantaire can't exactly blame the men. Enjolras alone is a sight to behold. Flanked by the cold, quiet danger of Combeferre, and the handsome, passionate fury of Courfeyrac, he often looks as though with their help he can light the entire world on fire. They look like a force of nature. Something to be respected and feared, no matter its beauty.

A lone gun rises from the force, and Grantaire's breath leaves his lungs in a desperate _"No!"_. He nearly drops the sign; the decision to force his way towards them – to _Enjolras_ , halfway to his muscles.  
  
He is stopped, like all of them, by a man walking in between the two crowds. Press cameras flash excitedly.  
  
“Senator LaMarque!” Exclaims the mustachio'd police commander, pushing down the gun with haste, “Sir, I –”

  
“Explain to me, captain,” says the senator, a greying man with an impressive beard, “Why you would raise your weapons at the people you have sworn to protect?”  
  
Grantaire can't see it, but by the uncomfortable looks on the policemen's faces, his stare must be piercing.  
  
“I-” says the captain, “Sir, they-!”  
  
“This is a peaceful protest, captain,” the senator interrupts, “I suggest you leave it that way. These people have all the reason, and all the right, to protest against the cruelties inflicted on them and their loved ones.”  
  
Cheers erupt from the crowd around Granaire. Marius drops the banner and nearly knocks Joly out in his excitement.  
  
“The way you have treated one of their own is artrocious, and as a representative of the people, I will not stand for it.”  
  
Enjolras is probably having some kind of revolutionairy aneurism, Grantaire thinks cynically, as he lowers his sign to lean on it, but a part of him hopes, too, and he smiles when the senator continues.  
  
“They are innocent,” he says, repeating Grantaire's earlier statement, “And a great injustice has transpired here. I trust you would not harm innocent people, when they protest against injustice, captain?”  
  
The captain shakes his head, defeated, and Lamarque seems to nod in approval, before he turns to their group.  
  
“Please,” he says, adressing Enjolras, “May I join your protest?”  
  
Enjolras knows exactly how to handle the situation, of course. Without as much as a word, Courfeyrac hands him his protest sign, and he holds it thoughtfully.  
  
“Do you believe in justice?” he asks, “And the equality we seek?”  
  
“Yes,” the senator answers, a small smile on his face, “with all my heart.”  
  
“Then you are already a friend,” Enjolras declares.  
  
The words come to Grantaire as though Enjolras personally whispered them in his ear.  
  
“Les Amis de l'ABC!” he shoutes, with the voices of his friends beside him, “The friends of the people!”  
  
Cheers and shouts of support erupt from the dozens of voices beside him, only rising in volume when Lamarque accepts the sign from Enjolras, the cameras a flashing madness, and Grantaire is sure it's a shot that well end up on the front pages of many a newspaper.  
  
So much for anonymity, Grantaire things, looking at Enjolras' smiling face. He doesn't feel ready to share Enjolras with the world. The world doesn't deserve him.  
  
Then again, Enjolras was never his to share.  
  
And it's not as though he deserves him, either.

 

 

 

* * *

Lamarque returns with them to the Musain, after the protest, which surprises Grantaire. He doesn't trust politicians, and figured Lamarque sided with them for the photo op and would then return to his office, but he actually seems interested in what they're doing. All of them, not just the photogenetic threesome. Grantaire avoids him either way.

What's even more surprising on top of that, is that he listens. He doesn't challenge Enjolras' leadership at all. That is, the Amis don't have a leader, but Enjolras has the job either way by unanimous, democratic, never-voted-on decision. He listens to him, to all of them, what they want; gives advice and suggestions, but takes them as well.

They decide to continue on the path they started on this morning, the one Lamarque helped clear. They plan more protests and rallies, as well as an information night, by Lamarque's suggestion, to inform the public. It'll draw more people to join them, hopefully. Educate, protest, help; they're words Grantaire hears for the rest of the afternoon. All of it peacefully.

“Our goal is to show that we _are_ here to help. We will be a contrast to the government forces,” Enjolras urges them at the end of the meeting, “We're putting everything on hold until we have our justice, and more if we can help it!”

He looks around the room, lingering on Grantaire and his cynical expression for a moment, before continuing, “We're going to help out where we can. Volunteer, here in the district. Help inform people, make their lives a little easier where we can. All of us.”

Grantaire can't not take the bait this time. Plus, it's nearing his time to leave, if he wants any sort of dinner before he has to go to the club.

“'m sorry, Apollo, I'm going to have to bow out of this one,” he informs Enjolras with a shrug. It's not even a snide comment or a cynical deconstruction of Enjolras' plans. Helping out seems as good a plan as any, and even if it doesn't help the cause, it will help some people out. It's just that, he really doesn't have the time. With what his family to support, three jobs and all that.

“And why is that?” Enjolras asks him coldly, “Are you not concerned with the people of your community?”

“Of course I am,” Grantaire answers, smirking even before he makes his next comment, “I'm part of this community and I'm usually very concerned with myself.”

“As much is clear.” Enjolras crosses his arms and stares at Grantaire with disappointment, “I'm sure you can clear some time in your schedule. Feuilly can.” He nods at the man sitting next to Eponine, a few tables away, who had joined them after his shift at the café. “I'm fairly certain you have the same job.

Feuilly makes to speak up, but Eponine elbows him to silence. Enjolras doesn't know about the other jobs, and 'Ponine knows he prefers to keep it that way. Especially the stripper part of his resume.

“Sorry, no can do,” he says, receiving disappointed looks from not just Enjolras, but Combeferre and Joly as well. They probably know about the first job, and Joly especially knows about the struggles he and 'Ponine face, but nothing is more important than the cause, of course.

He tells Enjolras as much, and then makes to leave. There's no arguing when it comes to this, not when he can't explain himself. If he can't properly defend himself, come up with counterarguments, can't correct and help Enjolras, what use is there in fighting with him?

“If not for you then surely for your friends,” Enjolras continues, “For your family. Don't you care about your family? About their future?! Evidently not, you heartless –” Oh no, he fucking didn't.

Grantaire turns around and glares at Enjolras. The fucking goregeous bastard. Caught him right where he's soft again, didn't he? The whole problem is that he cares too much. _So much_. They might not be blood, him and 'Ponine and Gav, but they're family.

“What, like you care about your family?” he jabs back. It's below the belt, bringing up Enjolras' parents, when he doesn't know he has hurt Grantaire enough to make him do this, but for once, Grantaire doesn't really care about Enjolras' feelings.

“Grantaire!”

He doesn't know who chastises him, and he doesn't really care about that either.

“You don't love your family, and I don't see why you should care so much about mine? About all of us!” Grantaire snaps, “You have no idea what it's like. You've never been poor in your life, Enjolras.”

The blonde's eyes widen; he knows it's serious when Grantaire adresses him by his given name. “You doubt that I see all of you here as my –”

“Family? Yeah you have a great way of showing it. Constantly telling us what's best for us, like you know,” Grantaire practically spits the words at Enjolras, “You don't. You have no idea. You have no idea what it's like. You don't know shit.” _and you don't know me_ , he adds mentally.

Enjolras bristles, “Grantaire you can't possibly –”

Bahorel, the bravest and boldest of them all, as per usual, interrupts. “Let's not fight each other now, allright, not when we're trying to make peace.”

Enjolras sniffs, but listens, and Grantaire laughs, and leaves. He doesn't slam the door on purpose – he knows Enjolras hates it and will walk up to it to close it. Behind him he can hear several voices talking over each other to Ethe blonde. He wonders who will defend him, and who will judge him.

It's raining outside. Just his luck.

Grantaire upturns his collar, and wraps his arms around himself as he walks through the puddles, heading to their appartment. Eponine will follow soon, but he'll already be gone when she gets home. He doesn't know if he likes that he'll be alone. Usually he's grateful for Eponine's tendency to leave him on his own for a while, before punching his feelings out of him, but he'd like a hug right about now.

He sighs, and cracks his neck, catching some cool rain on his face, whish is still flushed from his argument with Enjolras.

Enjolras.

He closes his eyes. It's not hard to call Enjolras to mind – he's haunted him since the moment they met. It's not hard to fall in love with him, he's beautiful, after all. Tall, lean, perfect skin, white teeth, blonde curls, bronze brown eyes. He's a wet dream come to life really.

Grantaire opens his eyes, and it's like he's staring into the piercing rust of Enjolras' eyes in front of him. The sepia tones of his skin highlighted by the wet of the rain. It turns his hair a shining gold, like it turns the pavement a glowing silver colour. Grantaire wants nothing more than to kiss him, feel those dark lips against his, kiss the droplets off him, taste him.

He simply watches, as he walks, dressing Enjolras in his red checkered and leather jacket, an item he favours, and his formal black slacks. The contrast has always been funny to him. This Enjolras smiles at him, and he smiles back, and they don't argue, not really. It feels as though this Enjolras mocks him for his clothing choices, and suddenly he's his soft worn jeans instead.

Their positions change and they're next to each other, just walking together through the rain, walking home. They pass underneath trees, already bare of their leaves, and they talk about winter setting in. Grantaire doesn't even mind the ever present group of strangers near their appartment, doesn't care for the trouble they might cause.

Sometimes, when he can't sleep, he goes out and walks like this, for ages – sometimes until dawn, talking to himself.

He knows that's what it is, that he's practically a crazy person, walking around like that, but it's nice to pretend he's having a nice conversation with Enjolras, for a change. There's nothing wrong with a fantasy, he's always had an overactive imagination. His hand itches for a paintbrush, a pencil, a piece of chalk or charchoal would do. He hasn't drawn in so long, and he'd like to paint this Enjolras.

Not that the Enjolrases he has put on paper have been anything but fantasies. He smiles to himself and Enjolras smiles back, still beside him when they reach his building.

Grantaire stops, looks at him. In his head, he has a perfect image of Enjolras. He knows him well, having observed him for so long. He has a good memory.

But it's just a fantasy.

“I love you,” he whispers, and the image of him disappears. Grantaire stares at the empty air sadly and he knows; he could never have Enjolras like this. Even if the golden man felt a smidge of the love that festers in Grantaire, it could never work.

Enjolras, perfect god of the sun Apollo, could never love, let alone be with, an ugly, alcoholic, _stripper_ with a shady past and an uncertain future. He doesn't deserve to have his happiness tainted with Grantaire, so Grantaire will love him from far away, alone. Enjolras' world will go on turning.

Grantaire scowls, turns on his heels and enters the building. The bottle of vodka waits for him in the kitchen kabinet, and after that Patron-mignette and Thénardier will not wait as patiently.


End file.
